CHAPTER IX
“They had exchanged tokens. He had parted with this knife to your husband. It is the damning link, to which I’ll swear. The Court is my Court, and my testimony will be final. I hang your Louis, Madame—twist a saintly neck to save a rake’s. Well, let it be. Women have these penchants.”
His vile innuendoes passed her by. White, withered in the scorching blast, the exaltation of her purpose kept her still erect, and steadfast to the end on which she’d staked her soul. Herself, in that foredoom, counted no longer for anything. She would save her love, her saint, though all the dogs of hell combined to pull him down.
Dusk was trooping up from the valleys. The sun-lit distant peaks budded from it like flower-spires in a fading paradise. As point by point they misted into vapour, so eternal darkness seemed to claim her to itself. In a little she would be quite alone. A child’s laugh, coming up faintly from the road below, smote on her heart like a death-cry. She started involuntarily; then stood stone-still. It was fearful to see tears running down a stone face. But each syllable of her voice, when she spoke, was as if carved and rounded.
“A worthless life; but innocent of this. He will not speak, you think—reveal the truth?”
“Not unless you bid him.”
“Ah!”
Even her loathing of that emphasis—of all that it implied—could wring no more from her. He conned her pitilessly.
“But say that he did—a palpable subterfuge to escape the halter. I’ll swear I saw the knife on him that very day.”
She hardly seemed to hear him.
“Worthless,” she continued lifelessly; “but I would not have him suffer—not for—you say he may be saved, once sentenced—given the means to escape?”
“I say I can procure one an order to visit him—no more. Appearances must be kept. The Government still counts, though in Savoy. What then! ropes are cheap; nights dark; the window of his prison is unbarred. They reckon on a precipice to hold—safe enough, not counting helpful friends—and lovers. Once over the border and in France, he’s safe—may snap his fingers at us, so long as he stays there. Give me what I ask, and you shall have the order.”
“O, not for me!”
“For whom, then, mistress? No, no—none else. I wash my hands of all collusion. You entreat me for a friend—or better; my kind heart yields. The permit shall be an open one—made out to bearer. I’ll promise that much. Confederate with whom you will. I’m not to ask nor know. Those are my terms. Take or leave.”
“My ruin.”
“Well, it’s a large sum, I confess—worth a saint’s ransom. If you think not, you needn’t sign the covenant. It’s true your estate’s of a constitution to heal itself of even such a wound; and there’s no heir for you to nurse, or nurse it for. But please yourself.”
“Give me the paper.”
With a hand stone-steady she put her name to it.
“And here’s in acknowledgment for need—signed Léotade, and countersigned,” said he, and held the order out to her.
She made no movement to take it; he threw it at her feet, and, without any sign of triumph or emotion, left the house.
She heard the door clang on him. The sound seemed to snap some fibre in her brain. Suddenly she was hurrying up and down, laughing, weeping, imploring,—
“No, no, it was a jest—I have let myself be frightened by dreams—the sky is all full of laughter at me. They don’t do these things—not to the very young. O! little baby! Why didn’t you come?—my little unborn child—I was too young to bear even a little child—too easily deceived—it would have killed me, and I should have gone to heaven. Such a jest!—heaven for me?—Children, children, don’t laugh! I heard you down in the road—Look, though I’m not a mother, I can bear secrets—monstrous, horrible things. Don’t come near me—I should cry and cry to see your terror. I said, Don’t come near me—don’t—My God! they are not children at all! Louis, Louis, save me! I did it all for you!—Louis!—”
She struck blindly against the wall, and sank down moaning at its foot.